You cannot forget
by Belthronding
Summary: (SILM based) After the slaying of Alqualondë, a Houseless maiden does not want the events to be forgotten... Starring Maglor. On the origins of Noldolantë


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A/N: A small fic, that sprouted from I'm not sure where. Comments gracefully accepted. Makalaurë is Maglor.

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You cannot forget

They came to our docks, a large host of them; dressed in fine tunics with dazzling swords, seeking to awe us by their riches. We did not stand a chance, but fought on bravely nonetheless, unwilling to yield our treasures for a cause that went against the will of the Valar. Fëanor it was who stood on the quayside, copper hair floating in the wind, urging his folk to man the ships quickly. Sparks were in his eyes, as he directed those elves who did his bidding, unrelenting, and I couldn't help but be drawn to the sheer power that emanated from those eyes. But not for long. Our mariners tried to heed them, and a few of the Noldor fell into the cold sea with a cry, but the main force kept on, undeterred, drawing the anchors of our ships one by one. I cried out to our men, calling for them to challenge these usurpers who wished to steal our white jewels, the priceless heirloom of my people. Many of the sails flapping in the wind were woven by my own hands, with much toil and care, and I did not want them to go to the aid of the Noldor. I did not need to, for soon our bows-so weak compared to the weapons of the Noldor- were singing their deathly hymn, arrows flying left and right, often on target. But their swords, so cold, so sharp, flashing, blinding in the light of the lamps were more efficient. 

Three times we drove them back, and we, the wives and maidens of Alqualondë breathed, our beating hearts growing softer in our chests, only to start thumping again furiously when a new onslaught brought us back to stage one. We had driven them back to the gates, and were sighing with relief, prepared to leave our houses to tend the wounded, when a great host rained down on us, more Noldor. What a wicked wicked trick it was, and as more and more mariners were slain I was filled with such desperation I never knew I possessed. They were getting away, touching our beautifully crafted smooth oars, the whiteness tainted by their uncouth hands, hands that had slain other elves unjustly, a Kinslaying. 

'No!' I cried out, running, pounding the ground, along the pier, shouting, uttering curses at these cursed Noldor, I would not let them row away awkwardly in boats they had no right to touch. Alas, I could not stop them, and an elf with raven dark hair desperately thrust his sword at me as I tugged at the anchor of the boat he was standing in, unwilling to let the last ship flee the harbour. I say he was desperate, aye I could read it in his eyes; eyes that were haunted, dark, frightened, as though he was driven on by something too awesome, too powerful to resist. I tugged still harder, and he thrust again; anxious to get away from the earth he had spoilt, earth covered in the blood of his people and of mine, anxious to forget that which had happened.

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Forget? I would not let him. 

I could feel life slowly ebbing out of my body, forsaking me, and as my spirit rose, allowing me to survey the scene, bodies, mounds of bodies, red spattered clothes, and horribly, a small sail blowing in the wind, a crimson design boldly etched in the middle-blood. The ships gracefully cut through the waters, making for the open sea, oblivious to the slaying they had caused, but they would never see the shores of Aman again, that I knew.

I was summoned, and even now I can recall the voice that summoned me to the Halls of the Dead. But it was not my time, I was not ready to be claimed.

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Forget? I would not let him.

I trailed them; the people of Fëanor, Fingolfin and Finarfin, relentlessly, and when they rested, filled their dreams with disturbing images, a mass of lifeless forms on the quayside at Alqualondë., blood stains on white sails, the wailing of the children.

I witnessed the treachery of Fëanor when he abandoned his kin at the Helcaraxë, stealing our ships yet again to ride Eastwards, towards Middle Earth, then up the Firth of Drengist.

They set up camp by the lake of Mithrim. Long it was, and unused to such warriors touching its smooth surface. There was one I noticed, with raven dark hair, who sat thoughtfully, swirling the water into intricate patterns with a long finger. Around him his brothers were agitated, scurrying this way and that, trying to put together a make shift home. He was oblivious to the surroundings, instead eyeing his reflection, as if it did not please him, before splashing loudly with a hand, disturbing the surface again, so that his face disappeared. He lifted up his head, and I looked again upon those desperate, haunted eyes. 

'Makalaurë,' I whispered, for I knew that to be his name, 'listen to me.'

He stiffened, unable to believe his ears, and slowly turned around.

'I am here, by your side. I wish to talk with you, it shall not take long.'

'Who are you?', he muttered, unwilling to speak loudly, for fear of attracting strange looks from his brothers.

'I was a maiden of Alqualondë, unjustly slain while protecting my ships.' He paled then, and I enjoyed it for half a moment, before pressing on urgently. 'You _mustn't _forget what your people have done.'

'I have to. Every time I close my eyes, images flood before me. A new beginning in Arda is the best way to let go, to start afresh.'

'I it was, who put those images in your mind, to haunt you, to make you understand what you have done. If you forget, the Kinslaying will loose its importance, the horror will be dimmed. The mariners need remembrance, and your people need humility.'

He held up his hands in despair-those hands that held the sword that pierced me. 'What can I do, elf of little worth, second son of Fëanor?'

'You have skill with song, have you not?'

He is surprised how much I know of him.

'Indeed, but…'

'Then promise me, promise me Makalaurë, you shall write a lament, for the loss of my people, and for the fall from dignity of yours.'

He is taken aback to say the least, he was not expecting this. Good, he will accept all the more then. 'Such a strange request.'

'I too was a singer, but my voice has been silenced. You shall carry the beacon forward, for the Teleri and the Noldor. Promise me!'

The sheer vehemence surprises him yet again, but he bows slightly. His eyes have found their sparkle where before they looked empty and dark. I see he is warming to the idea, and he smiles sadly. 'I promise, maiden of Alqualondë, to write a lament. The fall of the Noldor, Noldolantë.' He savours the words, tasting them, repeating them so they are graved in his memory.

A cry of alarm sounds, and the spell is broken. They are under attack, and as the elf gathers his weapons to join the battle he whispers, 'I shall not forget.' 

I take his word for it, and as the Noldor fight their first battle in Middle Earth I rise up and fly Westwards, ready to join my kin in the Halls of Mandos.

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Forget? I would not let him.


End file.
